Bad Influence
by Flywoman Returns
Summary: "I never made you do anything that wasn't in you already." A sort of alternative reality retelling of the House/Wilson relationship based on the eponymous film starring James Spader and Rob Lowe.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** Not mine. David Shore, Bad Hat Harry, and Fox own House and Wilson. _Bad Influence_ (1990) was written by David Koepp and directed by Curtis Hanson.

**Author's Note:** Thanks so much to my enthusiastic beta jezziejay and to my f-list for encouragement, especially blackmare-9. Also to hwshipper for her invaluable canon timeline.

* * *

><p><strong><em>New Orleans, LA. 1990.<em>**

His first talk at a medical conference finally over, all James Wilson wanted to do was to find a bar where no one knew him and get totally trashed. He'd been carrying the envelope with his divorce papers around with him all day in a daze, his head only clearing out of sheer terror for about forty-five minutes before, during, and after his presentation. Now he was finally free to leave his peers behind and find a quiet corner to lick his metaphorical wounds.

He settled on the somewhat seedy Blue Parrot as an unlikely destination for his well-heeled colleagues. James sank down on the nearest barstool, ordered a Scotch, and asked the bartender to keep 'em coming. The other man, balding and grizzled, brought the bottle to him and set it down with a bang, as if he couldn't be bothered to keep coming over to refill his glass. James didn't take offense. Besides, this way there would be no waiting.

James was about three-quarters of the way to truly tipsy and Billy Joel was crooning, "Leave a Tender Moment Alone" from the jukebox when a tired-looking woman with bottled blonde hair flounced in and slapped her purse down on the bar.

"Long Island Iced Tea," she snapped at the bartender, and hitched herself up onto the stool next to James' but one.

A long, slow sip later, she shut her eyes briefly in relief, then began rummaging through her handbag.

"I can't fucking believe this," she groaned, emptying the contents of her purse onto the counter and rooting irritably through the mess of cheap cosmetics and crumpled tissues. "I'm so sorry, I'm sure I had it when I left the house."

Without really thinking about it, James peeled a couple of bills from the wad in his wallet and caught the bartender's eye as he tossed them in front of his new neighbor. She gave him a grateful glance before picking up her drink and gulping down another generous measure.

"You look like you've had the same kind of day I've had," James ventured as she set her glass down with a sigh.

"Oh, honey," the woman returned ruefully, stuffing her compact and Kleenex back into her purse, "for your sake, I hope your day is _nothing_ like mine."

"I'm James," he offered, scooting his stool a little closer to hers.

She started to smile, opened her mouth to respond before her eyes widened in warning. James' arm was jogged as a big, beefy man with conspicuous tattoos brushed by him and plunked himself down between them. "You think you can just walk away from me?"

"Please, Billy," she hissed, "not here."

Billy glanced over and caught James staring. "What's _he_ looking at?"

"Um, nothing," James said hastily just as the woman cut in,

"He's just some jerk. Back off, he just bought me a drink."

The man stood, pushing his stool away, and forced James to crane his neck in order to maintain eye contact. "Get out of here."

On any other day, James would have caved immediately, probably even apologized for being so inconsiderate as to occupy the same bar as he dashed out the door. But today he had already had all that he could stand. All he'd wanted was to drown his sorrows in private, and by God, no musclebound moron in a tight tank top was going to push him around. He stared back, reached for the Scotch to pour himself another drink, and said stubbornly, keeping his voice as even as he could, "Last time I checked, this was a public bar."

He'd probably never know whether Billy had been offended by his smartass remark or completely misinterpreted the grip of his fingers on the bottle. In between one breath and the next, James found his face slammed down on the bar, its surface cold and sticky under his cheek. He squeezed his eyes shut in terror, whimpered and tried to wriggle away, but his hair was only tugged more painfully for his troubles.

Suddenly, over the roar of blood in his ears, James heard the sound of shattering glass. His eyes popped open. There was a tall, athletic man leaning against the bar, brandishing a broken beer bottle and a feral grin. His curly brown hair was uncombed, his jaw sported several days' worth of stubble, and his eyes were a dangerous shade of blue. "Let him go."

"Yeah?" Billy blustered. "What are _you_ gonna do?"

The other man's grin got wider if anything. "Let's find out."

Abruptly, incredibly, the pressure was relieved, and James slowly pulled himself back into a sitting position, rubbing shakily at the sore spots on his scalp. He was just in time to catch a glimpse of Billy and his girlfriend disappearing through the rear exit.

When he turned back around to thank his savior, James discovered that he was alone.

He got off the stool, wobbling a little in the aftermath of adrenaline, and stuck his head outside to scan the street, but the mysterious stranger was gone. James blinked, bemused, then shrugged, sat back down, and retrieved the bottle of Scotch, still miraculously intact.

It was only several hours and many drinks later when he was trying, nauseous and bleary-eyed, to settle his bill, that he realized his wallet was gone.

Courtesy of the local sheriff, James spent the last night of the conference in a free room with no view.

* * *

><p><strong><em>Boston, MA. Three months later.<em>**

James Wilson was having a terrible day.

It had started when he discovered that he no longer had the file containing the notes he'd taken on a particularly complex case. He had ransacked the Oncology lounge, pulling out sofa cushions, emptying drawers. He'd also collared each of his fellow residents as they arrived, but none of them would admit to having any idea where the file might be. In fact, one of them, Richard Patterson, who was one year his senior and currently the favored candidate for the coveted Chief Resident position, denied his complicity with such a smug look that James had realized instantly that he had to be the culprit.

His stomach already churning, James hurried down to the clinic for his morning appointments, cursing his luck. He had no proof whatsoever of Patterson's guilt, of course, and there was little chance of his notes making a reappearance before Grand Rounds the next morning. He'd have to skip lunch, try to recreate them from memory.

He was so distracted that he mixed up his files and suggested a prostate exam to poor old bewhiskered Mrs. Bernstein, who was terribly offended. And he didn't even notice the name on his last case file until he had closed the door and a familiar feminine voice said, "Aren't you going to ask me to take off my clothes, Doctor?"

"Bonnie!" he yelped, having nearly started out of his skin.

"You don't seem very happy to see me," she mock-pouted.

"No, no, I was just… surprised," he said lamely. "A very happy surprise," he added, although he sounded unconvincing even to himself.

She smiled and came over to kiss him. "Are you ready to go to lunch?"

"Oh, Bonnie. I'm sorry, I can't. I just have too much work to catch up on today." The constant dull pain twisted with sudden virulence in his gut, and he bent over, gasping.

"James, are you all right?"

Feebly he tried to wave her away. "I'm fine. Really. You should go ahead without me."

"All right," she said. "You will be able to make dinner with my parents tomorrow though, won't you?"

"Of course," James reassured her through gritted teeth. "Wouldn't miss it."

"They've been after me to hurry up and set the date," she said, idly running a fingertip along his jaw. "Is November good for you?"

"November? Uh… sure."

"Great," she sighed happily. "I really want to get married this year. _And_ I want to have a baby next year."

"Great," James repeated dejectedly, staring after her as she strode away. He leaned his forehead against the cool wall of the exam room for a moment. "Just great."

* * *

><p>He was out for a run near his apartment that night when he passed a couple arguing under a streetlamp. The man was tall, lanky, and vaguely familiar with his unruly brown hair and intensely blue eyes. It was only when he raised his voice, saying something about needing a little more time, that James finally recognized him from that night in New Orleans and turned back.<p>

The woman had just walked off in a huff, James' anonymous Samaritan watching her go from beneath heavy lids. "Hey." The older man turned, startled, his features bunching in suspicion, then smoothing over.

"Do I know you?"

"Um. You're the guy from the Blue Parrot, right? In New Orleans?"

James could see the exact instant when the incident clicked into place in the other man's head. "Oh. Right."

"I never had the chance to thank you," he said warmly. "You might have saved my life. You definitely saved me from getting my ass kicked." He held out his hand. "James Wilson."

The other man hesitated for a split second, then took it. His grip was firm but cool, his fingertips calloused. "Greg House."

"Do you live around here?"

Greg started to smile, then shook his head. "No."

"Okay. Well… see you around."

He was turning to resume his run when Greg's voice rang out in a challenge. "Why didn't you back down?"

James stopped, spun on his heel. "Excuse me?"

"In the bar. You could have walked away. Why didn't you?" The other man's gaze was curious, intent.

He shrugged uncomfortably. "I don't really know. Normally I would have. I guess there was just… this little voice, inside me, telling me to take a stand, and that day… I chose to listen to it."

Greg smiled. "I have that voice, too. And I _always_ listen to it." He looked James up and down, then appeared to come to a decision. "Wanna grab a beer?"

* * *

><p>They had a beer, and then another, at a bar around the corner from James' apartment. It turned out that Greg House didn't like being called Greg, and he insisted on calling James "Wilson" as well, although he didn't give the impression that he was trying to distance himself by doing it. On the contrary, James found himself confiding his most private professional problems to the older doctor, who turned out to be an infectious diseases specialist at Mass Gen.<p>

"This guy Patterson is definitely fucking with you," House agreed with a frank belch. "He stole the file just to show you that he could. Today your case notes, tomorrow your job, maybe next year your wife." He smirked and tapped the side of his forehead. "I understand how guys like him think."

"What an asshole," James said, already a little tipsy. He had always worked too hard to be much of a drinker.

"To Patterson," House said suddenly, raising his bottle.

"Wait… what?"

"To Patterson," the other man insisted. James stared at him for a second, then shrugged and clinked his glass.

In a flash, House had lunged forward and grabbed him painfully by the forearms. "What the hell is wrong with you?" he demanded. "You would drink to your worst enemy?"

Startled, and embarrassed at the attention they were getting from the other patrons, James shoved him away. "Get _off _me!"

House sat back, satisfied, crossing his arms behind his head. "There," he said. "Show Patterson _that _face."


	2. Chapter 2

James was sipping his coffee in the Oncology lounge the next morning when Patterson stormed in, running a hand distractedly through his usually neatly combed hair.

"What's the matter?" he asked innocently, setting his cup down.

The other resident was rummaging distractedly through his briefcase, swearing. "I have the M&M in half an hour, and I just took my slides down for a practice run."

"And?"

Patterson finally stopped and looked at him. "And…" he said, and his face took on a speculative look. "You wouldn't happen to know anything about some pictures of baseball players from _Sports Illustrated_, would you?"

James stared back serenely. "You wouldn't happen to know anything about my notes from the Franklin case, would you?"

"Look," Patterson said, obviously struggling to summon what passed for a friendly smile with him, "I'm not saying that I had anything to do with your missing case notes. But tell you what… you return my slides in the next fifteen minutes, and I'll see what I can do about helping you find them."

James just looked at him. "I'll tell _you_ what," he replied evenly. "You get my notes back to me within the next _sixty seconds_, and if you're lucky, you won't have any _Playboy_ centerfolds pop up during your presentation."

Patterson's jaw dropped and hung there for a gratifying length of time before he tucked his tail between his legs and scurried away.

* * *

><p>In a celebratory mood after this minor victory, James decided to beg off dinner with Bonnie's parents, claiming that he had to work late, then went back to the hotel where he had dropped House off the night before. The manager just stared back at him blankly when he asked for Greg, but a few seconds later, House sauntered in.<p>

"Hey Tony," the manager said, "this guy says he's a friend of yours."

House smiled and slung an arm over James' shoulders. "Thanks, Cal, I got it." To James: "You bring your car?"

"Sure," James said.

"Can I drive?"

In the Volvo, House laughed heartily as James related the story of his sleight of hand and ensuing confrontation with Patterson. He was especially tickled by the description of the M&M, through which Patterson had sweated and stammered, flinching with the change of every slide.

"You saw the whole thing?" House said in admiration. "Niiiice. You always gotta stick around and watch them squirm." He glanced at the rear view mirror, then back at James. "Hey, wanna get a drink? I'm in the mood for champagne."

* * *

><p>James was expecting a high-toned restaurant, but instead House took him to an art gallery opening, introducing himself to the greeter as "Maxwell" as confidently as if she should know exactly who he was. Once inside, he took two flutes of champagne from a server, handed one to James, and then drifted into the crowd, schmoozing with an older couple here, a group of serious-looking young women there.<p>

Left to his own devices, James wandered around the walls, trying not to gape. This exhibit leaned towards the sexually provocative avant-garde, with black and white nudes in soft focus arranged in suggestive poses with various household appliances. At one point a petite woman with long, curly, dark brown hair and clear blue eyes appeared next to him and gave a little gasp. James felt sorely tempted to clap his hand over her innocent eyes.

"That's _such_ a bad idea," the girl observed indignantly. "There's no way that wouldn't cause damage to the large intestine."

Okay, maybe not so innocent.

After about an hour of this, House hustled up to him, a lovely woman trailing in his wake. "Call me Franco," he said in an undertone as he clapped James on the shoulder to pull him close. "I've told her your name is Dominic." He put the accent on the last syllable, making the name sound French and vaguely obscene.

"Ah, _bueno_," he added, turning back to the woman and speaking in an atrocious Spanish accent, "Claire, I would like you to meet Dominic."

Claire was slim, striking, flawless pale skin and hair and eyes so dark that they were almost black. She held out her hand, and James kissed it, moved by the stirring of some emotion he could not name. "Hello. I was so sorry to hear about your wife."

"Um… thank you," James stammered, looking to House for help, and wondering where the man got off, blabbing about his divorce to perfect strangers. Then he had to correct himself – he'd never even mentioned Sam.

"_Si_, I was just telling Claire about Yasmin's tragic battle with leukemia," House said smoothly, with a significant glance.

"_Oh._ Oh, that, yes. Well, thank you. It's… been hard."

House allowed his gaze to flick briefly down in the direction of what Wilson realized only later was his crotch. "Well, I think we've ehseen eenough here, _no_?" He put an arm around James' shoulders and placed the other hand on the small of Claire's back.

* * *

><p>James took them both back to his apartment, rummaged in the liquor cabinet for drinks. Claire accepted a martini, but House declined; he was prowling around the place, peering at James' music collection, fingering his golf clubs. "You play?" he called over his shoulder.<p>

James shrugged. "Not really. My father got them for me when I graduated from med school. Said every doctor needed to hold his own on the golf course." The corner of House's mouth quirked up at his choice of words, but he forbore to comment.

* * *

><p>The next few hours passed in a blur of alcohol and laughter. After the fifth or sixth martini, James found himself stretched out on the sofa, just for a few minutes, with Claire holding his hand. The room seemed to be slowly spinning around him. He had a vague sense, when he struggled to open his eyes, that House was sitting in the armchair facing them, a smug smile on his lips.<p>

Then Claire's confident hands unbuttoned his shirt and slid firmly up his stomach and over his chest to clasp his jaw for a lingering, gin-soaked kiss, and he forgot about House, forgot about Bonnie, forgot about anything but this moment, this girl.

* * *

><p>James was dragged reluctantly out of sleep by increasingly urgent moans. He propped himself up on his elbow, a little surprised to find himself still on the sofa but in nothing but boxers.<p>

House was slouched in the easy chair in front of the tv, eating a chocolate pudding cup and watching porn. It struck James as amateurish, or perhaps deliberately shot to look like a home video, and the camera was too close for him to make out much more than rhythmic motion, flanks sheen with sweat, the shadow of pubic hair. He thought that it was a man on top, fairly young judging from the pale, smooth skin, sitting astride a slim woman who was lying on her back and encouraging him with her cries.

James frowned, feeling a mild frisson of shock at the brazenness of his guest… which was followed by a sudden surge of outrage, embarrassment, and something he would not, would _not_ acknowledge as arousal as the man onscreen threw his head back, bringing his contorted features into the frame, and he suddenly realized why the cream-colored cushions under them looked so familiar.

At his indignant gasp, House turned his head to pin him with cool blue eyes and pulled the spoon slowly from his mouth, tongue curling to catch the last traces of chocolate. And then he remarked, so casually that for a moment James couldn't be certain that he'd heard him correctly, "You make a very funny face when you come."

James lunged for the remote.

"No no no," House protested, "it was just gettin' good!"

"Oh my God," James groaned, burying his face in his hands. He felt a hand alight softly on his shoulder, apparently Claire back from the bathroom.

"Relax, Dominic," she soothed him, "I thought we looked very good."

He glanced up at her, grateful but still embarrassed, and saw that she had her coat on and her handbag under her arm. "Wait, you're going? Let me drive you home." He was not, he knew, in any condition to drive, but he couldn't forgo at least a token gesture of gallantry.

She inclined her head gravely and demurred. "Oh no, I have a taxi waiting. Believe me, it's better this way."

"Oh. Well, at least let me walk with you." James cast around on the floor for his pants, fished them from the untidy pile on the floor, and began pulling them on. House watched him, smirking and making no move to help.

Downstairs, Claire kissed him, one hand on the hood, and laughed when he asked for her number. "You're sweet," she said, and vanished into the cab.

* * *

><p>House was pulling two shot glasses and his best bottle of tequila out of the liquor cabinet when he got back. "Here," he said, handing him one.<p>

"House," he began to protest, but the other man tipped the bottle insistently into his glass.

"Oh, come on, I _gave_ her to you," he said, grinning. He filled his own as well, clinked the glasses together in camaraderie. James followed him obediently over to the sofa and sat down; House stretched his long legs out, feet propped on the coffee table.

"Now. Tell me what you want, Wilson. And tell me what you're afraid of." James frowned slightly, took a sip of his drink to stall, then swallowed the rest, relishing the slow burn. "Come on, it'll be fun. Tell me what you want, and tell me what you're afraid of."

"I'm afraid…" James took a deep breath, then blurted out the thought that he had hardly admitted, even to himself. "I'm afraid of getting married again."

House sat back abruptly, cocking a quizzical eyebrow. "Then why do it?"

"I don't know… I feel like it's too soon, but Bonnie wants to get married, and I… I don't want to lose her."

"And what do you want?" House asked, his rough voice low and irresistible.

"What I want…" James rolled his empty glass between his fingers, then held it out to House as the other man leaned forward to top it up.

"What I want… is to become Chief Resident thish year." He downed the shot and smiled to himself, then fought to focus on House, whose face was beginning to blur. "I wan' that so bad."

"Drink to it," House encouraged him, refilling his shot glass yet again. "Make it happen."

* * *

><p>James didn't get to sleep at all that night. Once House had finally left and he himself had sobered up significantly, he painstakingly reread his recovered notes on the Franklin case, and was in to check in his patient before any of the other residents had made an appearance.<p>

The boy had failed to respond to conventional chemotherapy. But in his reanalysis of the medical history and course of treatment, James had begun to suspect a misdiagnosis. The signs were subtle; some might say that he was going on nothing more than gut instinct. He said as much to House when he met him for a quick lunch.

"If I'm right, the course of treatment is obvious. But it's high-risk. I could save the guy from cancer just to doom him to liver failure."

"So? He can get a new liver. But only if he's still alive. What's stopping you?"

"It's a question of standard of care," James said, parroting what the hospital lawyer had said during their perfunctory discussion of malpractice insurance last year.

"It's _not_ a question of standard of care. It's a question of balls," and he whacked James in the crotch with a rolled-up magazine. "Now, do you have the _cojones_, or don't you?"

James valiantly resisted the urge to cradle himself and picked at his salad. House eyed him with a sour expression. "What's with the rabbit food, anyway?"

"I'm vegetarian," James said, and then amended, "right now."

House smirked. "Girlfriend?"

"Yeah," James confessed. "But also, it's, you know, better for me."

"Whatever," House said, taking another huge bite of his burger.


	3. Chapter 3

The next morning at Grand Rounds, James was amazed at how firm his voice was as he detailed the reasons for his rediagnosis and altered regime, pointed out the signs of immediate, if still slight, improvement in his patient. He thought he saw the Head of Oncology, Howard Wasserman, give him a small but approving nod.

As he was returning to the lounge after lunch, the department secretary motioned for him to step over to her desk.

"There's a Mr. Cojones calling for you," she said, clearly biting her lip to keep from laughing.

James grinned and took the phone from her. "Hey," House's voice rasped in his ear. "How's your patient?"

"Much better," he answered, "thanks to you."

"Knock it off. You had the idea. I just told you to go with your gut."

"Well, be that as it may, I wouldn't normally have taken that chance. I owe you one."

"Let's celebrate," House suggested, dropping the argument.

James felt his shoulders sag in disappointment. "I can't tonight. My fiancée's parents are celebrating their twenty-fifth anniversary. They're having a huge party at their house, and I have to be there."

"_Fiancée?" _House repeated incredulously. "When we met three months ago, you were just getting divorced."

"Yeah, I know it's kind of soon, but Bonnie's a great girl…" James trailed off. "Wait a minute, I never told you that. How did you know that I was getting a divorce?"

House paused, then admitted, "Saw you walking around the conference with the express mail envelope under your arm from a famous divorce firm."

James digested this for a moment in silence. "So you, what? Took an interest? Followed me to the bar?"

"You also seemed like the least boring of all the presenters at that conference," House offered, as if that was any explanation.

"Jesus. Here I'd been thinking all this time that you rescuing me was an accident. That you were just an innocent bystander."

"Nothing I do is an accident," House replied. "And no one is an innocent bystander."

"You knew my name," James realized. "Did you…" it occurred to him that he might not really want to know the answer, but he asked anyway. "Did you follow me to Boston?"

"Lot of good hospitals in Boston," House said evasively. "Have a good time at your party." There was the soft _click_ of the receiver.

James sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose.

* * *

><p>When he arrived at the Fieldings', the party was already in full swing, Bonnie playing the Habanera from Carmen on the piano in the corner of the living room, a small army of caterers gliding between the mostly middle-aged guests with trays of canapés and champagne. He placed the package on top of the stack gracing the console table in the foyer and reached for a flute just as Bonnie finished with a flourish, looked up, and spotted him.<p>

"James!" she shrilled, tripping over as quickly as she could in her tight, floor-length emerald green gown. She kissed him, lips cool and dry on his, and took him proprietarily by the hand. "I was beginning to think that you weren't going to make it."

James took a surreptitious swig of the sparkling wine as he trailed in her wake. Craning his neck to see over her bare shoulder, he surmised that she was taking him to pay his respects to her parents. He found himself wishing that he'd given in to the temptation to fortify himself with a couple of shots of something stronger before showing up to this shindig.

Then the crowd parted before them, revealing an elegant tableau. Dr. Fielding, as august a presence as always, smiled indulgently at his wife, one heavy hand pressed possessively to the small of her back. Mrs. Fielding, in pearls and a shimmering blue blouse, was looking up, laughing, into the face of a tall, lean man in a well-tailored tuxedo. At their approach, she glanced sideways, then held out a welcoming hand. "James! So glad you could come."

"I wouldn't have missed it for the world," James assured her, leaning down to brush his lips to her powdery cheek.

"Your friend Francois has been here for almost half an hour," she told him conspiratorily. "Careful, or he'll be charming my daughter right out of your arms."

"My friend…" James repeated blankly, and straightened up – only to find himself face to face with Gregory House.

"_Zhames,"_ the man purred in a phony French accent, smoothly thrusting his warm, strong hand into James' suddenly clammy one. He was clean-shaven for once, hair neatly combed, eyes perhaps just a little too bright.

"Why didn't you tell me that your friend from the Pasteur Institute was out here on a consult?" Bonnie chirped.

"Sorry," James stammered. "I've been so busy, it… must have slipped my mind."

"Francois was about to show us the tape of your talk at the medical conference in New Orleans," Mrs. Fielding beamed, the very picture of a proud future mother-in-law.

"Oh, well, I don't know if that's… I mean, you'll probably find it kind of boring."

"Don't be silly! Francois says you were fantastic."

Fighting the urge to flinch away from her, James said, "Honey, why don't just you go ahead and start without me while I have a quick word with… _Francois_ over here."

He hustled House over to a quiet corner next to the spiral staircase as the Fieldings and a handful of guests gathered around the big screen tv. "What the hell are you doing?" he hissed.

House leaned back against the banister and gave him a slow, knowing smile. "Don't be mad."

"I'm not, I just-"

"You might be in a minute," House confided in a low, earnest tone that sent a shiver down his spine. "I just want you to know… that I did this for you."

James frowned and cocked his head, his hands finding their way to his hips. "What are you talking about?"

House glanced meaningfully across the room. "Just the highlights. It's for the best, really."

"What is? _House?_" James hissed, increasingly perplexed and annoyed, but he was distracted by a stir and growing murmur from the other side of the room. Suspicious, he left House's side, stalking towards the tv, trying to determine what about the video they're watching is getting everyone so riled. James still couldn't see what was happening on the screen – the guests were clustered around it too thickly – but the familiar sounds he heard over the rising tide of horror and disgust made the blood drain from his face.

Bonnie's signature shriek pierced the air, and suddenly she was coming at him, all one hundred pounds of her, long fingernails poised to claw his eyes out. Behind her, James caught a glimpse of his own face, grotesquely enlarged, grimacing in ecstasy. Dr. Fielding pointed a thick finger and bellowed his name like an outraged elephant bull.

Without hesitation, James turned on his heel and plunged through the open French doors onto the lawn, then leaped into the passenger seat of the red Corvette that House already had humming in the circular driveway.

* * *

><p>The second James closed the door, House peeled away, leaving him to fumble frantically for his seatbelt. He whistled "The Lady Is a Tramp" loudly as he drove. He was dimpling, outrageously proud of himself.<p>

"Jesus," James said when he had gotten his breath again. "I can't believe you just did that."

Without looking away from the road, House said lightly, "You asked me to, remember?"

James shivered, feeling drunk on a heady mixture of relief, excitement, and something that he was not quite ready to admit might be fear.

* * *

><p>House took them to a neighborhood where Wilson had never been, ostentatious multistoried mansions separated by vast expanses of tree-shaded lawn. He pulled the car smoothly into the broad brick driveway of one of the biggest, a turreted stone Gothic monstrosity, and hopped out, beckoning for Wilson to accompany him to the guarded gate.<p>

"Gay white male," he announced.

As Wilson turned to protest, House rolled his eyes. "Not you, moron. That's the password."

The security guard bowed them inside.

* * *

><p>The grounds inside the gate gave the impression of a matriarch in decline, over-rouged and clutching at much younger men to hint huskily at past triumphs. Ladies in low-backed evening gowns drank champagne with one smooth flick of the wrist. Men with dark hair and darker eyes glided among them, their tuxedos casting sharp shadows even under the fickle light of the lanterns strung out among the trees.<p>

House headed straight for the bar, holding up two fingers, with Wilson on his heels.

"Dominic!"

He reached for the glass House handed him, delighting in the bite of the gin, the bitterness of the tonic.

"_Dominic!"_ It was Claire, coming up behind them, in a black velvet dress that clung to her curves and crossed behind her white neck, leaving her lovely shoulders bare.

"Oh, Claire, I didn't… hi!" Thrilled but embarrassed, Wilson drained the last of his drink and set the glass back down on the bar, wiping moist fingers on a napkin. House inclined his head to her with a meaningful look, touched Wilson briefly on the arm, then sauntered away.

"You look surprised," she observed in her low, musical voice. "Didn't you hear me?"

"Yes, but, um… I'm not Dominic." At her quizzical look, he continued, "That's not my real name. My name is Kirk." He was amazed at how easily the lie flowed from his lips.

"Kirk," she repeated doubtfully with a seductive tilt of her head. She flowed into him as he bent his head over that shining shoulder.

"Let's go somewhere quiet," he whispered into her ear.

* * *

><p>He led Claire into a dim little corner of the garden, where they leaned against a hip-high, crumbling stone wall. She tasted like expensive Pinot Noir, and her hair slid like water under his fingertips. He had never been with anyone so beautiful.<p>

Dropping his head back as she traced the line of his throat with her lips, he allowed his eyes to flutter open, his gaze to wander past the nakedness of her shoulder. He could just make out a tall silhouette staring down at them from the third floor balcony.

It was House.

* * *

><p>They ran into him on their way up the grand staircase, both stumbling slightly, Wilson more than a little drunk. House was in a mood, expansive, genial. "Here," he said, handing Wilson a little twist of paper.<p>

"What's this, a decongestant?" Wilson asked, sniffing it.

"_Yeah,"_ House smirked as he reeled, his world exploding briefly in intense pleasure and vivid color, "that's what it is."

"_Wow,"_ Wilson gasped, becoming aware that he was clutching Claire's arm for support.

House was suddenly standing too close, his breath warm, his eyes intimate as midnight. "Do you forgive me?" he murmured, too low for anyone but Wilson to hear.

Wilson shook his head, smiling. He had never felt so relaxed, so free. "Forgive you? Hell, I _owe_ you!"

House laughed, snagged a fresh drink from a passing tray, and sketched him a little salute. "Have fun. I'll see you around."

* * *

><p>By the time they left the party, Wilson could barely stand unassisted. "Not tired, are you?" House sneered, then laughed when Wilson gulped the contents of his glass woozily and grabbed another bottle for the road.<p>

When Claire called after them, "Bye, Kirk!" he laughed even harder.

* * *

><p>"Wilson. Wake up."<p>

He swatted House's hand clumsily away. "No, jush… lemme sleep a while. Be ri' back."

"No, you gotta _stay_ with me, Wilson. Here, have some of this."

Still half asleep, Wilson obediently accepted the bottle and raised it to numb lips. The 160-proof swallow blazed back up his throat, and he spluttered, wiped his mouth, and looked around.

House had one hand on the wheel, the other arm stretched behind the back of Wilson's seat. Despite the lateness of the hour, he looked no more dissolute than usual, his gaze still clear and bright. They were streaking down a broad but currently almost silent street.

He blinked bleary eyes and sat up straighter, then tugged on House's sleeve. "Hey. Thish ish Pattershun's neighborhood."

The other man cocked his head at him, eyes gleaming with mischief. "Oh yeah?"

"Pull a U-ie. Ri' here."


	4. Chapter 4

Wilson woke facedown, sprawled awkwardly on top of his still-made bed, with the worst hangover of his life. He felt like someone had flattened him with a steamroller, extremely slowly, starting with his head. He was, he gradually discovered, still fully clothed except for his shoes, which were in a haphazard little heap on the floor next to the bed, laces loosened but still partially tied.

The sun was shining straight through the window; he was already late for work. In the bathroom, he peeled off his sticky, reeking clothes with a grimace but allowed himself only the most perfunctory of showers. It was when he was rubbing lather onto his face for a hasty shave that he noticed the raw scrapes on his right knuckles.

House was fast asleep on the sofa, stretched out under the sleeping bag that Wilson hadn't so much as seen since moving in and stowing it at the back of his bedroom closet. He was wearing one of Wilson's old McGill t-shirts.

Wilson cleared his throat, annoyed. "I've gotta go to work."

The other man stirred, yawned, and cracked open one eye. "You don't mind if I sleep here, do you?" Without waiting for an answer, he rolled over, clutching the sleeping bag more tightly around his shoulders.

Wilson pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. "Fine. Don't forget to lock the door on your way out."

As he stalked towards the door, House twisted his head back to murmur, "You were somethin' last night, Wilson. A changed man." He smiled, eyes still closed. "Give my regards to Patterson."

* * *

><p>The nurse on duty met him at the elevator as he lurched out, still trying to straighten his tie. She shoved a pile of folders into his unresisting arms. "Your eight-thirty left, but your nine o'clock is still waiting – I let her into the exam room. And the rest of these are Dr. Patterson's – he called to say he wasn't coming in."<p>

He suppressed a groan – bad enough that he was late, but to get all of Patterson's cases dumped on him too? Was this some kind of petty payback for the prank he'd pulled the other day? "Really? Did he say why?"

Leslie shrugged. "Personal emergency. He didn't specify."

His knuckles smarting, and the faintest shadow of a memory beginning to stir, made Wilson pause. "But… he's okay?"

"I don't know." She stared at him curiously for a second, a question half-forming on her lips, then gave him a small shove in the direction of Exam Room One.

* * *

><p>Between his killer headache and the seemingly bottomless pile of case files, the morning dragged on like a bad dream. And Wilson was plagued by the growing conviction that there was something critical he was forgetting, something that he and House had done together after leaving Claire at the party. Figuring that he wasn't likely to be able to hold down any solid food anyway, he decided to skip lunch and drive home to try to catch House before he left.<p>

When he got back to his apartment, Wilson found House dressed in his own clothes again, sitting at the kitchen table and dunking mini chocolate doughnuts into a muddy glass of milk. "Hey," the other man greeted him with his mouth full. He held out the paperboard box. "Doughnut?"

"No, uh, thank you. House… Patterson didn't make it into work this morning."

House chewed, swallowed, and grinned at him. "I know."

"You know, how do you know? House? What happened last night? Did we…" he took a deep breath before forcing himself to forge ahead. "Do I remember us driving by Patterson's place?"

House jerked his chin towards Wilson's knuckles, still angrily raw. "You tell me."

Wilson felt the blood drain from his face. "What are you saying, that I _hit_ him?" he demanded, appalled.

"Hit him?" House chuckled in admiration. "You beat the _shit_ out of him."

He staggered back a half step. "But… well, what were _you_ doing?"

House smirked back at him. "Holding him down." The _duh_ rang in the air as loudly as if it had been spoken.

"Jesus, I can't believe this!" Wilson sank into the nearest armchair, covering his face with his hands. It had been years since he let his temper get the better of him… _decades_…

"Wilson, don't worry." When he looked up, peeking between his fingers, House was smiling fondly at him. "I'm not going to tell anybody."

"_Tell_ anybody- House, he's my colleague!"

House shrugged and wiped his mouth with a tattered paper napkin. "Well, he's not going to tell anybody either. He knows you'd kill him if he did."

"_What?"_

"Or if you didn't kill him, I would." House looked away, then straight into Wilson's eyes. "I told him so myself." He tapped the box, now devoid of anything but crumbs. "While I was out getting the doughnuts."

Wilson stared at him for a few seconds, mouth working. All the air seemed to have been squeezed out of the room. House just sat there with that smug look on his face, as if he fully expected to be congratulated.

At last he managed to suck in a breath. "Get. Out."

House's smile faltered. "Wilson?"

He stood, his rage seeming to give him a size and solidity he had never known as he towered over the taller man. "Get out!"

House pushed his chair back and met his gaze, blue eyes coldly calculating. For a second Wilson felt real fear, wondering whether his new friend was about to sucker punch him, or worse. Then House gave a little shrug. "Okay." He stood up, grabbed his backpack and sauntered towards the door.

Just before it closed behind him, he said softly, "You got what you wanted." It sounded like a promise.

* * *

><p>Wilson drove back to the hospital in a daze. He could barely believe that he was capable of the kind of violence House had described, and yet, under the influence of that much alcohol… and who knows what the other oncologist might have said to provoke him… And try as he might, he couldn't recall another moment between asking House to make a U-turn and regaining consciousness in his own bed.<p>

The Dean's administrative assistant caught him on his way to the cafeteria for a much-needed mid-afternoon coffee break. "Dr. Wilson? Dr. Wasserman would like to see you when you've got a moment."

Wilson swallowed and nodded, trying to feign nonchalance as he followed her. "Any idea what this might be about?"

She didn't turn around. "I wasn't told… but I can tell you that he was on the phone with Dr. Patterson just before he asked me to come find you."

_This can't be happening._ Patterson had turned him in. He was out of a job. He'd be lucky if the other doctor didn't press charges. Wilson wondered whether he might be about to vomit.

Despite the dread that seemed to weigh down his limbs like lead, they arrived at the Head of Oncology's office all too soon. Alicia knocked lightly on Wasserman's door and then held it open for him with a smile. "Go right on in."

Wilson unfolded a pocket handkerchief and mopped his forehead, then squared his shoulders and stepped inside.

Wasserman was on the phone, but as soon as he saw Wilson, he concluded his conversation and came out from behind his desk. "James!" he said. "Have a seat."

"Howard," Wilson greeted him neutrally, senses alert for some sign, any sign, of how much Wasserman knew and why he had called him in. He wiped clammy palms down the sides of his slacks as he sank onto the sofa. Wasserman sat down next to him.

"Nice work on the Franklin case," he said. "Very thorough analysis, and then you were willing to take a chance and had the courage of your convictions."

"Thank you," Wilson said. He still had no idea where this was going, but the pain in his chest was starting to ease. Maybe Alicia had jumped to conclusions about the phone call. Maybe Wasserman just wanted to reassure him, an ambitious young doctor, that his successes were being noticed.

"I suppose you heard about Patterson," Wasserman said, giving him a keen look from beneath bushy eyebrows.

And _back up_ went his blood pressure again. "Um, no, not really," he managed to stammer. "Only that he couldn't come in today because of some kind of personal emergency. Is he… all right?"

"Well," Wasserman said slowly, still staring at him, "no, apparently he's not. That is… he just called to tell me that he won't be with us for much longer."

Wilson squinted at him. "You mean…"

"He's taking another position at Yale. They have an opening this year, and apparently his wife wanted to be closer to family."

"Oh," Wilson said, still confused, but now cautiously optimistic that he was not about to be fired or arrested. "Well… we'll all be sorry to see him go."

Wasserman laughed out loud. "That's just like you, James. A gentleman to the end." He waggled a finger in his face. "Don't think I didn't notice that he'd been giving you a hard time."

Wilson ventured a small smile. "It has been… challenging."

His boss waved a hand. "Well, we can put all that behind us now. Point is, of course he's no longer in contention for Chief Resident."

He couldn't believe that the implications hadn't occurred to him already. "Are you saying…"

"You're a little young, James, it's true, but you're far and away the best candidate now as I see it. You're smart, you're ambitious, your colleagues like you, and certainly your patients can't sing your praises loudly enough. So what do you think?"

He felt himself breaking out into a fresh sweat. This was it. The moment of truth. The moment around which his ambitions had crystallized, year after year, while he smiled and subsisted on journal articles and stale cups of coffee and his now ex-wife waited for him in vain. And yet, how had recent events propelled him here? What would the kindly older man sitting across from him say if he knew?

"I'm sorry…" Wilson said, then swallowed hard and looked Wasserman in the eye. "I'm only sorry that it had to happen this way."

He did not allow himself to look down as he reached out to shake the Chair's hand.


	5. Chapter 5

Wilson stayed late that night, poring over recent papers and reviewing his current cases. He had no reason to head home anyway, really. Bonnie wasn't speaking to him, he had no idea how to get hold of Claire even if he wanted to dip back into that dangerous lifestyle, and the only other person who would have wanted to help him celebrate his promotion was probably long gone by now.

* * *

><p>He got back to his building around ten. As he was coming out of the elevator, his neighbor Elisa passed him with her dog. "Can't wait to see it!" she said with a smile.<p>

"I'm sorry?"

"Your apartment. I heard you were having it redecorated." She gave him a cheery wave as she disappeared behind the sliding doors.

Puzzled, he hurried down the hall to his own door and thrust the key into the lock.

He knew that something was off the instant he opened the door, but it wasn't until he flipped the light switch on that his senses could confirm what his intuition had already told him.

His apartment was empty.

_Empty_, empty. Not a dish left in a cupboard or a sock in a drawer, empty. Wilson wandered around for a while, half-convinced that at some point he would wake up from an especially weird dream and bark his shins on a suddenly visible coffee table, but at last he had to acknowledge that all of his stuff was, indeed, gone.

He went looking for House.

* * *

><p>He began his search back at the hotel where House was supposedly staying. The bartender denied knowing where "Tony" was, but when Wilson broke away from him and headed for the stairs, he found the older man sitting on the fourth step, waiting for him. House looked pleased – with himself or with Wilson, he couldn't tell.<p>

"Know why I took your stuff? To show you I could."

"It's _my_ stuff," Wilson protested.

"Your stuff, huh?" House stood up, still smiling faintly. "Like your promotion? Like Claire?" He stepped closer, his voice low, insistent. "You wouldn't have gotten any of that if it wasn't for me."

Wilson opened his mouth, then closed it again, unable to argue. "Fine." He raised his hand to rub the back of his neck, feeling a huge headache coming on. "It's yours. Do whatever you want."

House cocked his head. "So the stuff makes us even?"

"Yeah," Wilson said, suddenly exhausted. "The stuff makes us even."

He could feel House's thoughtful gaze boring into his back as he walked away.

* * *

><p>Wilson spent the night at the same hotel where he'd spent so many nights after Sam divorced him. Although he ached for sleep, it eluded him. Around 5 am he finally gave it up as a lost cause and went to work, feeling grateful for his foresight in always having a spare set of clothes in the car.<p>

Towards the end of the afternoon, the department secretary came into the clinic to tell him he had a call, supposedly urgent. He couldn't deny feeling just the faintest hint of exhilaration when the familiar voice rasped in his ear, "Hey. Remember me?"

"House," he acknowledged in a low voice, looking around. "What do you want?"

"_Well_… I got rid of your stuff, like you said." Wilson rolled his eyes, but House continued, "There were some things that weren't much use to anyone else – some files, photographs, your passport. I'm leaving them in a box for you at the foot of the Clock Tower in Wellesley."

"Oh, well _that's_ convenient," Wilson sneered before he could stop himself. It would take him hours to get there in rush hour traffic. He might as well wait until tonight.

He could almost see House shrug on the other end of the line. "Take it or leave it. It's on my way out of town." A pause, which, Wilson realized later, had been for effect. "Oh, you'll find your wallet in there, too. I lifted it in the bar that night in Nola. Think your Diner Club card's over the limit, though."

Wilson slammed the receiver down, so surprised and angry that he couldn't trust himself to speak.

* * *

><p>The box was right where House had said he'd leave it, wallet and all. No cash, of course. Still feeling stunned, Wilson drove back into Boston on autopilot, and was surprised and chagrined to discover that he'd arrived back at his apartment complex. Suppressing a sigh, he got out of the car and hoisted the box under his arm. Might as well drop it off inside before heading back to the hotel for the night.<p>

His apartment, however, was no longer bare.

His home video camera was back in the living room, aimed down the hall towards his bedroom and bath. His television set loomed next to the doorway, screen static buzzing in what he could only interpret as a menacing way. Almost mesmerized, Wilson set the box down on the floor near the front door and walked over to the entertainment center. He picked up the unlabeled video cassette lying on top of the television, hefted it experimentally in his hand, and then slid it into the slot of the VHS, which swallowed it with a sly mechanical slurp.

The screen cleared to reveal House slouched against the doorframe of the hall, a scene presumably shot with Wilson's own camera. He was wearing low-slung jeans and one of Wilson's pinstriped shirts, half-unbuttoned so that his flat belly was bare. "Wilson," he said, looking straight into the camera, "I want you to remember one thing. _You asked for this_."

House's head turned at the sound of a sharp knock at the door; it all felt so immediate that Wilson turned to look, too, but of course no one was there now. House grinned at him. "Be right back." He sauntered offscreen. Wilson could hear the door opening, low voices murmuring in the background. Then a figure moved back into frame, but it wasn't House.

It was Claire.

House, however, was right behind her. "He's in the bedroom," he said smoothly, and Claire smiled at him.

"Great," she said, "I can't wait," and she started striding eagerly down the hall. House turned back to the camera and winked, then followed her. The bedroom door clicked shut behind them.

That was when Wilson noticed the dark smear on the white trim of the doorframe, half-hidden by the television set.

He ran.

The bedroom door was locked. Wilson didn't stop to think; behind him, bloodcurdling screams were blaring from the tv. He jiggled the knob, then thrust his shoulder against the door, more and more frantic to get inside, even as he realized that the videotape was evidence enough that he was far too late.

At last one especially vicious kick broke the latch and sent the door swinging open into the room. Beyond it, on the floor, was a body. Dark droplets were scattered everywhere, and the familiar dark hair was matted with drying blood. Wilson dropped to his knees and gagged, so overcome with horror that he only noticed the stained golf club when the shaft bit into his hand.

The screams from the living room had stopped. Wilson wiped his mouth on his sleeve and staggered back out into the hall. He was just in time to see the image of House swaggering towards the camera, his torso spattered with blood. The older man grabbed the side of the doorframe to strike a pose, his glove leaving a bright red streak when he straightened. And then he started laughing. It was high, uncontrolled, mirthful, and strangely innocent. Wilson almost began gagging again.

That was when he heard the whistle, and every hair suddenly stood on end.

House, in the flesh, stepped out of the shadows of the kitchen behind him, still whistling. He had probably been standing there all along, watching his own performance as well as Wilson's reaction.

Wilson was rooted to the spot in terror and could only watch wordlessly as his former friend approached, his blue eyes blank, his handsome face unreadable.

"You thought we were even before," House said. "Now we're even."

Then he broke into a huge grin, and his gaze traveled past Wilson's shoulder into the hall behind him.

Wilson looked back and nearly fell over. Walking towards them was Claire, looking none the worse for wear except for the sticky hair and unusual pallor. When she reached the living room, House held up his hand, and they gave each other an exuberant high five, then grinned over at Wilson.

Who whispered, "Jesus _Christ_," his legs clearly in danger of collapsing under him. He wondered whether he had wet his pants; he was too numb from shock to tell.

"Oh, _Wilson_," House chuckled. "You really thought I would have _killed_ her?"

"I didn't know _what_ to think! You, you got me drunk, got me high, made me cheat on my fiancée, egged me on while I beat up one of my colleagues…"

House took a step forward, suddenly sober. "I never made you do anything that wasn't in you already. People are such hypocrites. They go through their whole lives to the day they die saying that they're innocent, but they're not innocent. I showed you that!"

Wilson stared back at him, speechless. Damn the man, he couldn't argue with him. As desperately as he'd wanted to be Dr. James Evan Wilson, boy wonder oncologist, with his shiny, perfect, predictable life, that wasn't who he was. Or at least, it wasn't all he was.

And he had to admit that, insane as the last few days had been, he hadn't felt so alive, so much himself, for as long as he could remember. House had surprised him, over and over again. And he'd had _fun_.

Although that fun had come with a steep price. No matter which way he tried to rationalize it, there was no excuse for what he and House had done to Patterson. None.

As if reading his mind, House smirked. "Besides," he said, "you didn't beat up anyone. You were passed out in the car the whole time. I just saw the Merc that belongs to Howard Wasserman's wife parked in Patterson's driveway and accused him of screwing her while his own wife was out of town." He nodded towards Wilson's scabbed knuckles. "I dragged your hand on the pavement to fuck with you."

"To… _fuck_ with me?"

"Yeah," House chortled. "I still can't believe you fell for that."

Without any warning, Wilson's fist suddenly flew out and slammed into House's face.

They both regretted this almost immediately, Wilson spinning around and clamping down on his freshly reopened and acutely painful scars with his uninjured hand while House's skinny ass landed on the carpet and bounced a couple of times. Somewhere in the ensuing bellowing and confusion, Claire quietly made her escape.

At last Wilson stalked over, flexing his fingers, and glared down at House, whose cheekbone was already beginning to darken. "_Now_ we're even."

"Deal," House said, smiling, and held out a hand, allowing Wilson to help haul him to his feet. "Hey, you hungry?"

"Well, thanks to _someone_, I don't have a crumb of food in the place."

House began unbuttoning his faux-bloodstained shirt. "Yeah, we'll go pick up the rest of your stuff from storage in the morning. In the meantime, I've heard about a good new vegetarian place in Cambridge."

"Screw that," Wilson said fervently. "I want a steak."

THE END :D


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